Perspective
by ally ally oxenfree
Summary: “I am beginning to die. You should withdraw your hand from mine." SpockPrime/KirkPrime and then K/S. Warning: a fluffy deathfic with a happy ending.


Author's note: I apologize for the format, but this wrote itself to cheer me up. –twitches- And the tense changes and the I don't know. I don't know.

**Perspective**

I. i.

His eyes had been closed for what seemed to be days but what he knew to be three hours and twenty seven minutes. His internal organs were failing.

There were failing methodically and as was to be expected; the patchwork body was always loathe to obey any command, least of all his own. Could he detail each beat of his heart- each production of enzyme- each codon, anti-codon, intricate riddle's translation to protein- he would have been dead so many years ago.

"Hey old man." Not-Kirk's soft voice, possessed completely by worry.

"James Tiberius Kirk…" He felt his expression change into one of vague happiness as Kirk placed his hand over his forearm. The doctor had removed the IV.

"How are you? Are you in pain?"

He considered this. "No more pain than I have been since your counterpart's death. After such an event, physical pain no longer truly registers. I'm sure you of all people, Jim, know that the most threatening injury is the only one which will register."

The young man was moving. Spock heard the captain's chair screech against the floor.

And then skin to skin and mind to mind- somehow- how?

"We must not- not meld- as I die-"

"Then up until then." The captain was not requesting permission. There was nothing the older man could do, anyways, and it was obviously what he wanted. Emotions bled into the dying man's consciousness. The human was filled with conflicting sadness- subtle and resigned- and a deep want to _know_ and _fathom_.

He heard himself chuckling. "Jim…"

Quiet.

"I…I remember when you died."

Quiet. There, their link, a quiet nudge, and encouragement, not a question, but… Instead of words he ignored the barrier and let himself feel again. As cells would deteriorate so did he, entirely. Unravel, fade, sigh.

All there had once been, gone. That which had shattered barriers with a touch or a word or a glance that somehow _knew_ as should not have been possible. Illogic that played with gravity and chance as though somehow exempt up and _vanishing_ and leaving in its place the reality of-

Of isolation and an 82 percent failure rate in significant relations between himself and other life forms. Walls and wire and fences.

There was a shuddering and broken sob somewhere to his right and as he had expressed he received- Jim was reciprocating every expression of grief and loneliness as though it were his own…

"I am beginning to die." The unspoken acknowledgment was that he had been dying since James Tiberius Kirk had died. "You should withdraw your hand from mine." The unspoken acknowledgment was something along the lines of "fuck no". Spock laughed softly, and then once more as the younger man's thoughts bled into his own consciousness. _A laugh like worn paper, like his hands._ Soon the captain was rubbing circles in the Ambassador's palm with his thumb and the quiet murmur of the machines in the sickbay was all that distracted the two from their shared grief.

And then a shudder- a gasp- as Spock began to die.

A lifetime's worth of memories- his Jim breaking down from fear of loneliness. Exact change. _He always calls you Captain, even when he doesn't say it._ That immediate moment of fear as he recognized the danger and the complete need to take the poisonous darts for the Captain instead—

All in one moment. To the other Jim it may have seemed like months or years, he would not have known. He recognized that he was fading.

You aren't fading. You're leaving. There's a difference.

I fail to see how that is true.

Jim replied with a rush of emotions- paper does not fade, your personality could not fade. There must be more than this, you have to see him again.

I. ii.

His heart is slowing but then- then he sees. He sees far away, where he has yet to have gone- there- the feeling first, like blood plummeting-

"Jim," he gasps. "Jim. I... How?"

James Tiberius Kirk laughs and looks at him as if it should be obvious, then grabs his hand. "I like this me," he says. And then James Tiberius Kirk kisses him and as the other James Tiberius Kirk pulls his hand away abandoning his consciousness he feels the younger's mouth against his as his Kirk pulls him very close and Spock is loved—

The monitor wails, but he can no longer hear it.

II. i.

Spock had said his goodbyes to his older counterpart approximately an hour ago. Their exchanged words were brief and pale. Insignificant. Spock supposed that there was really not much to say to oneself as oneself began to die.

There was no advice that the older one would give, he knew, that he had not already communicated. It was eerie, knowing every gesture that the other tried to hide. And vice versa. In the little time in which they had shared physical proximity, there were so few secrets.

Now Spock stood still and silent not ten feet behind his Captain. The human was so fixated upon his companion that he had not heard the younger one approach. Which left him in an awkward place- his leaving might disturb them, but they seemed so naturally intimate it seemed a crime to bear witness to their bond.

Their first words were oddly casual and- in Kirk's case- predictably insubordinate. But then, his Captain's words- are you in pain?

There was a moment of silence oddly foreboding considering the imminent death of the elder Spock and oddly tense, although the younger Spock was unable to ascertain why. He briefly considered that perhaps the elder was truly in pain, but that was obviously not so-

"No more pain than I have been since your counterpart's death. After such an event, physical pain no longer truly registers. I'm sure you of all people, Jim, know that the most threatening injury is the only one which will register."

The Ambassador's words were almost uncertain. Slow and deliberate and cautious yet unbearably honest. Because then Spock realized- he to whom the other referred was the elder James Kirk.

A cold shock ran up his stomach.

"We must not- not meld- as I die-"

"Then up until then."

"Jim…I- I remember when you died."

There was silence and the younger Spock felt completely alien for, although not the first time in his life, and almost inevitably not the last, a significant moment.

A ragged, drawn out gasp of a sob. An ugly noise and uncompromisingly honest. It was Jim. Somehow, he was not surprised by it.

"I am beginning to die. You should withdraw your hand from mine."

Then descended upon the Vulcanoid a physical sensation he attributed to anxiety- the captain had indicated on multiple occasions his attachment to the Ambassador. He wondered if the danger was not obvious to the captain, or if emotion had clouded his judgment so significantly as to put himself in unnecessary danger-

II. ii.

A whisper from the dying one. Jim begins to cry in earnest and he takes his hand away. "Goodbye Spock," he manages, and then he bends over.

A sudden spike of alarm seizes Spock suddenly and he wonders if Jim intends to send his consciousness to the same oblivion where the dying one now departs to? But no. It is just a moment where the young human chastely presses his lips to the pale-as-paper half-human, half-Vulcan on the gurney.

The monitor to which the Ambassador is connected begins to alert them all as to the obvious death of the one who is not breathing.

Spock simply stands and stays as Kirk, a moment later, walks straight past him.

II. iii.

The next few days are tense and Spock is, at first, worried as to what transpired between the two. Obviously there were memories exchanged and emotions transferred and would something scare Kirk off and away from him? He takes great lengths to assure himself such would not matter and as long as their working relationship is intact there is nothing to worry about.

He fails completely at convincing himself.

But despite his own attempts to convince himself that Kirk must wish for distance and, alternatively, that Kirk must fear him now, he finds himself drawn ever closer until he asks for the captain's evening to play chess.

However, as they leave the bridge, and they both reach for the button on the turbo lift, their hands brush but barely, and Spock is suddenly possessed by an overwhelming contentment and acceptance. Because to Kirk, he is not an anomaly. And to Kirk, he is a perfect fit. The two of them, once the doors close, are otherwise occupied and do not discuss the matter further; they do not play chess, but sit at one of the observation decks hand in hand. Silent.


End file.
